Monitor
by leavinghope
Summary: John Watson is not sure of many things, but he is certain he cannot carry on with his carefully constructed life as husband and father if he loses Sherlock Holmes again.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson paused outside the partially closed door to his daughter's nursery. At five weeks old, Willa had been moved into her own room just the previous week. John had protested, saying it was too soon. Mary had insisted, arguing that privacy would allow them to regain their previous intimacy.

And that was the real reason why John had argued against the move. He had returned to Mary out of responsibility to his unborn child, hoping Willa's birth would help to reconnect the shattered pieces of their marriage. But every time he looked at Mary, he pictured her firing a gun at his best friend, the man who was speaking in low tones to his daughter right now.

"You have your father's stubborn jaw. I wish you would wake to see if you have his eyes. They're dark blue, you know. Many people think they're brown, because they only ever see him from a distance. But I've been lucky enough to be close to your father. I know they're blue."

John heard a gentle rustling, and then Sherlock said, "You have a remarkably strong grip, even in your sleep. Good girl. A fighter like your father. Like your mother, too. Maybe as you grow up, you'll help your mother keep your father safe. Lord knows I've been a failure at that."

John took a few silent barefoot steps forward and peered into the room. The window was open from where Sherlock had climbed in, and the smell of the rainy night filled the room. The illumination of the star-shaped nightlight allowed John to notice that Sherlock's long coat was damp, and he had removed one sodden glove to allow Willa to grab a finger.

John knew Sherlock got on well with children. Still, the sight of Sherlock holding his daughter's hand caused John's throat to tighten with overwhelming affection tinged with fear. Not that John worried Sherlock would ever be a threat to his daughter. _No, never that_. But John knew only extraordinary circumstances would drive Sherlock to enter his daughter's nursery uninvited, in the middle of the night. His fear was validated as he heard Sherlock say, "But your father won't be in as much danger without me around anymore."

John was surprised at the steadiness of his voice as he asked, "And where exactly will you be?"

Sherlock stood tall from where he had been leaning over the cot, but he did not dislodge Willa's tiny grip. "How did you know I was here?"

John pointed to the baby monitor on a brightly painted chest of drawers.

"Ah."

Sherlock gnawed on his lower lip and continued his contemplation of the sleeping child. John was certain Sherlock was avoiding looking at him directly. Time to switch tactics.

"You could have just knocked."

Sherlock attempted a weak smile. "Where would be the fun in that?"

"If you'd let me know you wanted to meet her..."

"Of course, I wanted to meet her."

"... Then you could have called, and I'd have let you in the front door at a civilized hour!"

"I couldn't come in the front door, John. You could not be seen welcoming me."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Mind your language, John." Sherlock gently covered Willa's upturned ear, dwarfing her tiny head with his hand.

John huffed out a quiet laugh, amused by Sherlock chiding him for inappropriate behavior. "Seriously, Sherlock, why can't you be seen here?"

"I'm supposed to be at Baker Street."

"Well, you do live there."

"Yes, but..."

Sherlock at a loss for words was never a good sign. John prompted, "But?"

Sherlock's shoulders hunched, as if he were bracing for a fight. "I'm under house arrest."

John was taken aback. Even for Sherlock, this was an unexpected development. "For what?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock responded, "Oh, John, you know what."

 _Magnussen._ John gasped. _But it can't be._ "I thought that was over with. When they called the plane, you, back, I thought that meant..."

"I had hoped, but no."

John clenched his hands into tight fists. "It's unfair! You did everything they asked of you."

"I still killed a man, John. I deserve to be punished." A hint of dismay flickered across Sherlock's face, an expression John had previously seen during the few times they'd been together since Christmas. John knew Sherlock had never planned on killing Magnussen, and certainly never an unarmed man.

His voice soft, John attempted to assuage Sherlock's guilt. "You killed him defending Mary."

Sherlock shot John a quick glare before looking away again, and John felt a pang of shame. Protecting Mary was the fiction John had composed to cope with going back to her after the shooting at Appledore. He could still feel the horror and shock as it finally occurred to him the depth of emotion that may have compelled Sherlock to take such lethal action against Magnussen. It had hurt John more than he would have ever guessed to not be allowed to remain at Sherlock's side at the time. And to return to the flat he inhabited with Mary was almost more than he could bear.

Desperation crept into John's tone. "They know what kind of man Magnussen was."

"Trust me, Mycroft has tried every argument." A rueful smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Nobody understands it was self defense."

Sherlock continued, the time speaking directly to Willa. "If anything happened to your father, it would kill me."

And John's carefully constructed fiction crumbled around him at Sherlock's words. "No, never that, please."

"It's true. Once you knew Magnussen had information of any sort on Mary, you'd go after him. I had to prevent that. Just like sneaking in here tonight to avoid scrutiny. I do not want you implicated in any part of my crimes, or Mary's. You deserve so much more, so much better."

John felt the frustration of being left behind after the fall from St. Bart's, left out of so many decisions over the years, yet again. "We could have worked something out. Approached Mycroft. You could have trusted me."

"I saw how angry you were about his defilement of my fireplace."

"Of course, I was. He came into our home as a guest and..."

"Magnussen came to my hospital room once when you had stepped out. He touched me while I was too weak to move away."

John braced himself against the wall with one hand while his other covered his eyes. His heart pounded, and his vision blacked out along the edges.

"See how you react to him touching me. Imagine how you would feel about it if it had been Mary."

 _Oh, Sherlock, I cannot imagine being more angry than I am right now._ Attempting to keep his voice as calm as possible, John asked, "What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?"

"That really is not the point, John."

John squeezed his eyes closed tight, trying to get the image of Magnussen abusing a weakened Sherlock out of his mind. "Then what exactly is your point?"

"That you are willing to do anything to protect the people you care about. And I cannot let you do that for me. You have the life you've always wanted, with the woman you love and this beautiful child. I need to protect you, all of you. But it seems I'm not very good at that."

John looked at his friend, thinking of their years apart. He remembered how resentful he had been upon Sherlock's return, thinking he'd been on a grand adventure. But in reality, Sherlock had been in deadly peril. John feared he knew where Sherlock was headed next.

"You said you're leaving. Sherlock, where will you be going?"

"You know, John."

"Perhaps I'm hoping I'm wrong."

As Sherlock hesitated in giving his response, John scrutinized his dearest friend with a doctor's eyes. His hair was longer than usual, and the rain caused long strands to cling to his too thin face. The shadowing under his eyes was deep, as if he had not slept for days. Sherlock had obviously been neglecting himself. John felt a strong urge to cook Sherlock's favorite mushroom risotto with peas and feed it to him while bundled up in a warm blanket and John's arms. _Was that it? Every time I wanted to shake him, I actually wanted to hold him?_

Sherlock's reply cut through John's thoughts. "Back to Eastern Europe, as the agreement established."

Once again, John grabbed at the wall for support. "But you said it was a terminal mission. When you got called back home, you let that slip."

"I admit I regret my honesty now."

Sherlock's attempt at levity failed, as John spiraled into despair. To carry on once again without Sherlock in his life was unthinkable. "This can't be happening."

"It's okay, John. I was able to spend more time with you. We had one last go at the game together, you and I." Sherlock smiled down at the sleeping baby in her cot. "I had a chance to meet your daughter. You have no idea how much she means to me."

A series of images flooded John's mind. Sherlock feeding Willa her bottle. Giving her dancing lessons as she stood on his feet. Teaching her to play the violin. Deducing her teenage suitors. Sharing whisky in front of the hearth at Baker Street after dropping Willa off for her first day at university. It wasn't until that very moment that John understood he had envisioned a future with Willa and Sherlock, not Willa and Mary. This truth rattled him to his core.

"She needs you."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. She'll have her parents. I'm making sure of that."

"I can't do this without you."

The admission shocked John as much as Sherlock. But now he'd said it, he couldn't stop. "I came back for the baby, but I can't love Mary after what she did to you. I'm trying, but I can't and I don't think I ever will. I don't know what I will do without you here with me."

The furrows about Sherlock's nose deepened as they always did when he was confused. "You need to give it time, John. I know how much you've loved Mary, how much she helped you when I was away. You will have her at your side from the very beginning this time. You will find your way back to her again."

"How can you possibly be so calm about this? You're leaving here to die, and she indirectly put you there."

Sherlock made a thoughtful hum before he said, "Maybe I'm too sympathetic to Mary to advise you objectively."

"Sympathetic? She shot you. Looked you right in the eye and shot you."

"But she was trying to protect her life with you. Therein lies my sympathy, John."

"I don't understand," said John, starting to really believe he did.

"I had a life with you once. In retrospect, it was the happiest time of my adult life. You think I easily left that life behind, but I was just trying to protect it, protect you and all those around me who Moriarty was threatening."

Willa made one of the tiny mewling sounds in her sleep that had already charmed John several times in the few weeks since her birth. She had a similar effect on Sherlock, who broke into one of his rare delighted grins as he stared down at her. "She's perfect, John."

 _He's only known her a few minutes, and he loves her already. How could I ever have doubted his ability to care?_ A universe of possibilities was unfolding before John's eyes, even as he was about to lose it forever. "Yeah, perfect."

Sherlock mistook the sadness in John's voice for reproach. _"_ You've tried to forgive me, but I know you've never trusted me again. I understand. You think I left you behind because I didn't trust you or need you at my side. The truth is, I always want you with me. Just the thought..." He paused, clearly stricken.

"Yet you were still going to leave without saying good-bye." As much as he tried to hide it, some anger filtered through in John's words.

"I am just so tired of saying good-bye to you." The set of Sherlock's shoulders showed how defeated he felt in that moment, and panic surged through John.

"So run away. You got out of Baker Street tonight. You don't have to return."

"Yes, I do. You would never have a moment's peace if the government thought you knew where I was, and then it would have all been for nothing." Sherlock sighed. "I knew the moment I pulled the trigger I would be punished for my crime. I waited for witnesses so nobody would think it'd been you."

"I never asked you for that."

"You never had to." Sherlock paused and looked steadily at John for the first time that night. "Willa?"

John nodded. "For you."

"I know it doesn't seem this way from the amount of pain I have caused you over the years, but being your friend has been my greatest honor and privilege."

Sherlock leaned down and tenderly kissed Willa's hand, still clasping his finger after all that time.

"I hope the day will come when you can truly forgive me. Perhaps even think of me without feeling sad."

Unmistakable reluctance slowed Sherlock's normally brisk pace as he placed Willa's tiny fist on her chest, then pulled a glove back over his bare hand.

"And maybe someday you'll be ready to tell your daughter of the adventures you shared with a madman." Sherlock paused, his voice catching. "Who loved you with all of his broken heart."

"Don't..." John started, but emotion closed this throat and he could not force more words out. Seemingly without volition, John's left hand reached out, and his body swayed towards Sherlock.

But even as he turned towards the window, Sherlock raised his own hand in a gesture that kept John fixed in place. As he maneuvered his long legs over the window sill, Sherlock looked briefly back at John. The pale lamplight filtering through the open window emphasized his beauty, his facial expression full of affection and sorrow.

"Good-bye, John."

And then Sherlock was gone, leaving John with only the sound of the rain as a reminder he'd been there at all.


	2. Chapter 2

John splashed water on his face, hoping to cover the evidence of his tears. He had wept over Willa's cot, holding the same tiny hand that had so recently clasped Sherlock's. John was not often brought to tears.

John forced himself to confront his reflection in the mirror above the vanity. He appeared gaunt and indescribably weary. He did not look like the man who ran the streets of London with Sherlock Holmes in pursuit of justice. He looked like the man he had become, barely existing in a boring suburb, working in a lackluster medical practice, trudging through a loveless marriage. In the months since Sherlock was shot in the chest, John contemplated divorce. But he did not trust Mary and had no reason to believe she would not punish him by taking his daughter away. John flinched from the defeat the mirror showed on his face.

As always when walking into the bedroom, John was distracted by the garish wallpaper Mary had chosen. Varying shades of green on a cream background with a bird and flower design, it was a daily reminder that John was no longer in his room at Baker Street. A wave of sorrow crashed over him, and so it took him a few moments to realize the room was not dark, as he'd left it.

Mary was sitting upright on the bed, using all of the pillows to prop herself up against the headboard. As John noticed her, she waved the baby monitor at him.

He sighed, not relishing the prospect of yet another confrontation. "You heard?"

"Yes."

"You don't seem surprised."

Mary arranged the duvet more snugly around her legs, clearly settling in for a discussion. "By what? That Sherlock will be punished for Magnussen after all? Disappointing, but not unexpected. That Sherlock loves you? John, I've known that since he pulled you out of a bonfire like it was his own life that depended on it. In fact, the only surprise tonight is that you seemed blindsided by all of it."

But was he really? John always knew the deep connection he'd felt with Sherlock from the moment they met strained the confines characterizing his previous friendships. But there had never been a man that had attracted John so profoundly before. He'd never thought it might be love because it never occurred to him he'd ever love a man. But this was it, at last, the deconstruction of every fiction, every boundary John had fabricated for himself. On this night of all nights, when Sherlock was leaving for what was likely to be the last time.

"Go." Mary's voice interrupted John's internal revelation.

"What?"

"Go with him."

John took a step back, baffled by her insistence. "Why would you tell me to do that?"

"Because I also heard all the things you didn't say."

John hesitated, searching for words to express the turmoil in his mind. Eventually, he blurted, "This is one hell of a conversation to be having with you."

Mary shrugged. "Who better to have it with? For all you feel that you no longer know me, I do know you, John Watson. I know the noble man you are, how hard you've been trying to do the right thing for the sake of our daughter. But I also know the you I first fell in love with, and that man was a grieving widower. I've always known."

John muttered in response. "Yeah, well, I didn't until tonight."

To John's surprise, Mary laughed. "That is painfully obvious."

With hands on hips and eyes aimed at the ceiling, John felt compelled to ask, "So, to be clear, you knew Sherlock loved me and you believed me to be in love with him. Exactly why did you marry me?"

"Because I loved you. And I knew the façade of me gave you everything you thought you wanted. There was part of me, a big part of me, that wanted to be Mary Watson, nurse, wife, mother. So yeah, I married you."

"Is that still the life you want?" _Can I trust you with our daughter if you're not in my sight every waking minute?_

"You don't trust me."

"Of course not."

"Fair enough. Listen, John, I want this life. I still want to be Willa's mother, in a safe home in the suburbs, far away from my old life. That's the only reason I was in Magnussen's office at all. If I could still be your wife, I would, but…"

"But?"

"Maybe it would have never worked out because you never loved me wholly in the first place, but I put the bullet in the heart of our marriage when I shot Sherlock. I'd shoot him again if I had to, and you know it, and that's why we're over. So go."

It was the first time Mary had been so plain about both her culpability and her indifference about shooting Sherlock. The nagging shame John had felt about his waning feelings for her disappeared completely with her words, and he believed every one of them.

The soft cries of an awaking Willa came from the baby monitor. Mary said, "Sounds like it's feeding time." She stretched out her arms and legs, and then fell back against the pillows with the exhaustion she'd been battling since the birth of her daughter.

John groaned as he remembered he'd be leaving Mary behind as a single parent if he followed Sherlock to Eastern Europe. He rubbed his eyes with both hands and said, "I am the most selfish arse in the world. I can't abandon you right now. You need all the help I can give you with Willa."

Mary swung her legs over the side of the bed and forced her feet into fuzzy pink slippers. "I am more than capable of taking care of myself and our daughter. Don't worry about us."

"Of course, I'm going to worry about you."

Mary remained seated on the edge of the bed. She sighed and said, "John, since you hate dishonesty, but apparently have difficulty being honest with yourself, I'm going to just flat out say it: If you stayed here with us and Sherlock died out there, you'd never forgive yourself, and it would detrimentally impact your relationship with your daughter forever. Go."

"It's just she's so young, and I don't want to screw things up with Willa so early on." John reflected on his adolescence and its lack of a father's love and support. How it affected his later decisions, how it affected Harry. "I want to be an important presence in her life. I want to be a good father to her."

"Don't worry, John. I will always allow you access to your daughter as long as you and Sherlock help me keep this new life I've worked so hard to build."

This response put John somewhat off balance. "You're bargaining with me now?"

"This was always the bargain, John. I'm just being honest about it now."

Mary smiled up at John, and he was surprised to feel some remaining affection for her. Perhaps if she had been honest from the start, they could have made it work. But there would always have been Sherlock. Dead or alive or in some amorphous state in between, Sherlock was always in his thoughts and in his heart, no matter how much John had struggled to understand his own feelings.

"Thank you."

Mary forced herself to her feet and drew on her robe. "Go on now, start packing. They must be transporting Sherlock soon if he broke into our flat tonight to say good-bye to Willa."

John grabbed his green duffel and walked over to the wardrobe. As he was stuffing his bag with warm socks, jumpers, enough pants for a week, and sturdy jeans, Mary paused in the doorway, "I can't wait to see where you hid your gun."

"Nowhere I'm going to tell you."

Mary twisted her mouth into an exaggerated pout, and John laughed, the strain of his interactions with her lessened because his decision to end their marriage was made. After he threw his duffel on the end of the bed, he grabbed some clothes and his phone and went back to the bathroom. As he grabbed his toiletry kit from the cupboard above the toilet, he thumbed open his contacts list and pressed Mycroft's direct line.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson."

"I'm going with him."

"You'll need to be more specific."

"Damn it, Mycroft, I don't have time for this. I'm going with Sherlock. Make it happen."

"Tell me, what crime meriting a death sentence have you committed, Doctor Watson?"

"Every time I thought him incapable of feelings."

There was a long pause. John took the opportunity to kneel down and retrieve his gun from where he had hidden it behind the pipes under the vanity, out of reach from the previously heavily pregnant and now very exhausted Mary. He popped out the magazine and stowed both carefully in his kit before Mycroft spoke again.

"I once broached the idea of you meeting him in Eastern Europe, and he was vehemently opposed. Sherlock does not want you to endanger yourself on his behalf, Doctor Watson."

"And that is why I have to."

After a long silence, John decided to beg. "Please, Mycroft. I need to go with him."

"You cannot be seen by Sherlock or by his guards before the plane takes off. You will have to board and hide before they arrive. You can only reveal yourself once you are at cruising altitude. The crew will be under orders to not return to England at that point. Can you evade their detection for that period of time?"

"Don't insult me."

John could hear the pleased smirk in Mycroft's voice as he replied, "Very well. Be at the entrance to the National Portrait Gallery in two hours, across from St Martin-in-the-Fields."

John exhaled, barely keeping a hold of his phone as his hand trembled in relief. "Thank you, Mycroft."

"It is I who should be thanking you, John. You may have just given my baby brother back to his family."

John found himself moved by this rare display of sentiment from the elder Holmes brother. "You really think we have a chance?"

"I've learned that with you at his side, Sherlock can achieve the previously impossible."

And there it was, the old confidence pumping through John's veins. "Yes, yes, we can."

"I will keep your wife and child under surveillance, of course. They'll be safe, and I will make certain Mary does not leave with your daughter."

 _Speaking of_ … "Mary knows our relationship is over. I'd like to have our marriage declared void. She used a false name, married me under false pretense. However, I want to ensure my access to Willa. Can it be done?"

"Consider it already a settled matter. Welcome to the family, John."

 _Is that smugness, warmth or some Holmesian combination of both?_ "Getting ahead of yourself there, aren't you?"

"Really? I thought it was you who was finally catching up. Two hours, John."

After Mycroft ended the conversation, a few moments passed while John could only stare at the phone in his hand. _Everybody knew but me. I_ _'_ _m such an idiot._ The past few hours took on all the qualities of a dream – a phantom voice, distorted passage of time, yearning for something just out of reach. But now, the dream was turning into a reality unimaginable not so long ago while John wept over his daughter's cot.

And that reality was fast approaching. John showered, fighting the temptation to linger in what might be his last opportunity to bathe for quite some time. Then he quickly shaved before throwing his razor in his kit and zipping it up. He grabbed a warm flannel and wiped the remaining shaving cream from his face. This time when he looked at himself in the mirror, he saw a rejuvenated man. One with a sense of purpose. One with a future. One at the side of Sherlock Holmes. He smiled at himself, and he recognized the cocky gleam in his eyes. _There I am. It_ _'_ _s been a long time._

John walked back into the bedroom, and the baby monitor let him know Mary was still in the nursery with Willa. He moved efficiently, gathering his tablet and various chargers and backup batteries. Once everything was packed, he looked at the bedroom he had lived in for the past few years. He felt no regrets upon leaving. This had never truly been his home.

John threw his duffel bag and jacket by the front door of the flat, and then he quietly walked down the hall to the nursery. He entered the room to the quiet noises of Willa suckling at her mother's breast.

Mary glanced up at the sound of his footsteps. "All ready?"

"I don't know I'll ever be ready to leave this little one behind." John felt his heart melt at the sight of his little girl.

"I'll make sure she's healthy and thriving when you get back."

As he walked over to the rocking chair where Mary was feeding Willa, John replied, "You better." He smiled to belie his words, and Mary winked back in kind.

She handed Willa over to John, who hugged the baby close and whispered to her. "I have to go away for a little while. You know the man who came to see you earlier tonight? His name is Sherlock. He's my best friend, and he loves you already. I think you'll grow to love him, too. He needs me right now, so I have to go. We'll be back in London as soon as we can, I promise. Maybe I'll even be able to chat with you sometime while I'm gone?" John looked at Mary with a querying eye.

"If you can get a secure line, yeah, please. Keep in touch when you can."

Willa started to fuss, obviously still hungry. John kissed her forehead. "I love you, little one. So very much. Behave for your mother, okay?"

"Oh, John, she's our child. Behaving is a little much to hope for, don't you think?" Mary said as she took Willa back into her arms. John dropped a quick kiss on the top of Mary's head as Willa resettled at her breast.

"I have to go. Sorry this is so abrupt."

"Go on. It's fine."

John walked to the door, pausing as Mary called to him. "And John?"

He turned towards her. "Yeah?"

"Don't wait to see if you both survive before you tell him."

John tilted his head, hinting for clarification.

With a twinkle in her eyes, Mary continued, "It would be singularly cruel to let Sherlock Holmes go to his grave without knowing John Watson loves him."

John nodded in response, unable to speak over the pounding of his heart. Then he retrieved his bag and jacket and left the flat. It was too early to take the Tube, but there was twenty-four hour bus service to Trafalgar Square. He boarded a bus at the third closest stop to his flat, approaching via a circuitous route in case Sherlock had members of his homeless network watching him. _Sherlock._ John sat down and smiled to himself amongst the anonymity of the crowd of sleepy early commuters. He'd see Sherlock again very soon.

And this time there would be no more good-byes, on tarmacs or at the threshold of 221B Baker Street. No apologies for actions they'd take again or recriminations for the things they'd never done. This time John would be at Sherlock's side and never let anyone harm him. This time John would never allow Sherlock to feel alone ever again. Or unloved.


End file.
